


a little louder than the living

by skogr



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Earthborn (Mass Effect), F/M, Ruthless (Mass Effect)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 13:37:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10164152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skogr/pseuds/skogr
Summary: If it’s about Torfan - and of course it’s about Torfan, everything always comes back to Torfan - then she wants it to be on her terms. She’s had enough of people inventing their own truth.





	1. Chapter 1

The first thing Shepard sees as she rounds the corner is Garrus, hunched over a tray of something gray in the mess and looking out of place. She changes course with the practiced smoothness that come from learning the art of command from someone like Anderson, grabbing a packet of something from one of the food cupboards and sitting down in the seat opposite him like that had always been her intention.

“Shepard,” he says - she’s managing to get something other than ‘commander’ out of him these days - and turns back to his food with what seems to be reluctance. She takes a look at her own packet with a grimace, but peels back the lid and lets the companionable silence continue for a few moments. No need to push the conversation just yet.

She can’t stop herself looking at the food on Garrus’ tray, which looks about as out of place as he does, and seems to be being pushed about the tray listlessly more than being eaten. Not that Garrus is out of place on her team, or even visually on the ship - he looks quite at home with the turian-inspired interior of _Normandy_ \- but he doesn’t tend to mix on the crew deck so much. None of her alien crewmates seem to venture far from their usual haunts, so she’s pleased to see him in the mess.

He pushes the food on his plate across to the other side again, and sighs. He doesn’t look so pleased to be here.

“Do all turians play with their food?” she asks with a grin, almost immediately regretting teasing him as his hands go still. She never can seem to tell what will bounce right off him and what will fluster him, and whatever the press wants to call her, she’s not out to make her alien crew any more uncomfortable than their isolation already demands.

But Garrus just looks at her levelly. “Only the ones unlucky enough to be stationed on human ships with only the vaguest of ideas of what turian food should look like.”

“You mean it’s not meant to look like, er -”

“Decomposing pyjack gizzards?”

“Some of us are trying to eat here, Garrus,” she says, and he cracks what she’s come to recognize as a grin. “Seriously, you need me to requisition something? I can't promise anything fancy, but I can see what we can get.” He looks a little put on the spot, so she shrugs and turns back to her own food. “Just send me a list if you think of anything.”

“Thanks, Shepard,” he says, and makes a valiant attempt at a another mouthful with his expression so pained that she can't help but laugh.

“So,” she says, “decomposing pyjack gizzards, huh? You got some first hand experience?”

“You _really_ don't want to know.”

“Can't be worse than some of the other stories you've told me. This another C-Sec one?”

“They were pretty popular pets on the Citadel a few years back, harmless enough, but you're supposed to have a license if you want to breed them.” Garrus gives her another look. “You sure you want to hear this while you're eating?”

Shepard glances down at her own not particularly appetizing meal. “You got any C-Sec stories that don't involve innards?”

Garrus laughs a little, but only a little, expression turning pensive. “Believe it or not, sometimes there were boring days.” He taps a finger on the table with a sort of controlled agitation she can't quite read. “I've been thinking about Doctor Saleon, actually.”

“Yeah?”

“What would the Alliance have done if we'd handed him over?”

“Hard to say. Extradited him if the Salarians asked, probably. Maybe handed him over to C-Sec to show willing to the Council.”

“They'd have used him as a political play?” He's clearly unhappy with that answer, which she can understand. “He was a criminal. A murderer.”

“Two birds, one stone, Garrus. He would've got what he deserved.”

“You don't think he deserved to die?”

Shepard hums thoughtfully as she contemplates her next mouthful, Garrus a live wire across the table. She lets him stew in his self righteous anger for a moment longer.

“You never think that's too good for some people?” She looks him right in the eye. “He got a quick and easy death without ever having to face up to what he'd done. I think it was a lot more than he deserved.”

Garrus’ shoulders relax a little. “I… yeah, maybe.”

“What would you have done if you'd still been with C-Sec?”

“Depends,” he says slowly, and then nothing else for a few moments. She stays quiet, lets him work through it without interruptions. “Protocol would've been for me to bring him in,” he says eventually, though she doesn't miss that he's dodging the question.

“And C-Sec never extradite?”

“Of course they do, they’ve barely got enough holding cells. The Protheans didn’t figure law enforcement into the Citadel schematics, apparently.”

Shepard raises her eyebrow. “So it’s the political exploitation you object to?”

“I’m not criticizing your decision, commander,” he says hurriedly, “I was just … _surprised_ that you see it that way.”

_Ah_. Shepard is starting to get it now. “My reputation precedes me, clearly.” Garrus looks as though he’s about to say something further, but she holds up her hand to stop him and allows herself a quiet sigh. If it’s about Torfan - and of course it’s about Torfan, everything _always_ comes back to Torfan - then she wants it to be on her terms. She’s had enough of people inventing their own truth.

“After Torfan,” she says, because she never says _butcher_ , “the press had a field day. People forget how close the batarian threat felt back then, how noncommittal the Council had been, how scared everyone was. They ran a dozen stories with me as a brave hero against impossible odds before they decided that wasn’t selling enough subscriptions. So they took a few vids and flattened out my voice with speech editing software, and I think you know the rest.”

Garrus stays silent.

“Truth is, I’m neither of those things. I’m not a hero and I’m not some kind of trigger happy xenophobe, I’m just a soldier who had orders and followed them, simple as that.” She sets her jaw, trying not to go on the automatic defensive the way she learned, but she still faces him down coolly.

Garrus shakes his head. “I didn’t think you were, commander.” They’re back to ‘commander’, apparently, and she holds in a heavy sigh.

“I’m not trying to accuse you of anything, Garrus. I’d just hate to think you were joining this mission for the wrong reasons.”

He sits up straighter. “Sir?”

“I wouldn’t want you to be under the impression I operate in a different way to how I do in reality.”

“No,” he says immediately, a little unexpectedly, and then - even more unexpectedly - he gestures towards her tray of regulation meatloaf and back at his own uneaten meal. “Humans cook their meat.”

The heaviness descending on her turns quickly into bewilderment. “Excuse me?”

“I think that’s why the dextro rations don’t fare so well in your Alliance defrosting facilities, actually, but that’s not my point.”

“You’ve lost me here, Garrus.”

“Traditionally, meat dishes are prepared from start to finish by the same person. Because we don’t cook it, the art is in how the animal is prepared and how the cut is taken. It’s a very well respected profession, it’s not open to just anyone.” His mandibles flutter slightly with what she assumes is amusement at her own confused expression. “There was a translation note on your file at C-Sec. Your word ‘butcher’ doesn’t exactly exist in most turian dialects, so translators tend to use the word for this profession as a rough cognate. It works when you’re talking about preparing meat, mostly, but not really as a metaphor.”

“So you’re saying that turians call me, what - the Chef of Torfan?” Despite herself, she starts to grin. It’s been a while since she’s found any levity in the situation, and even longer since since one of her crew used the word ‘butcher’ to her face. It doesn't her nerves on edge as much as she'd imagined.

“Something like that,” Garrus says, and his expression is more relaxed now, too. “The translation note wasn’t there to correct our assumptions, it was there to explain any potential human hostility.”

“Thanks, I think,” she says, and takes a surreptitious look at his food. It _does_ look raw; that much she can pass on to the mess sergeant. “You know,” she continues, feeling more inclined to be open about it all than she has in years, “they grounded me for a few months afterwards on Arcturus, gave me psych evals, the whole thing. I got offered a new posting off the back of it in the Terminus, basically on batarian watch duty. They make a move, we make a move first, that sort of thing.”

“I’m guessing you didn’t take it?”

“Nope.” She grimaces. “I wasn’t about to become their own personal batarian executioner. I don’t regret what I did at Torfan, but - well, that wasn’t what I wanted to be known for. So they put me up for N7 with Anderson as my mentor.”

“I bet the Council started considering you for the Spectres even then.”

“Yeah, Anderson said as much. I nearly turned the N7 training down to start with, because I didn’t want Torfan to be what earned me it.” Shepard meets Garrus’ surprised look with a self-deprecating raise of the eyebrows. “He talked me out of it, like he talked me out of refusing to let Nihlus do his field evaluation. He said you can’t pick your legacy, but you can pick what you do with it. I’m still not sure about that one.”

“I think,” Garrus says carefully, “that it might just be a matter of perspective.”

“Here’s to hoping,” she says, “when all this is over we’re either going to be the heroes who stopped Saren or the idiots who followed him halfway round the galaxy on a wild goose chase.”

“The first one, definitely.”

Shepard grins, and out of habit slaps him on the shoulder as she stands up. She’s not sure if that’s an acceptable gesture to turians. Garrus looks vaguely surprised, but otherwise takes it in his stride. “That’s what I like to hear.”

He waits until she’s halfway out the door before he answers. “I’m in this for the right reasons, Shepard. You can count on me.”

“Always knew I could, Garrus.”

 

-

  
  
  
  


Shepard trusts Hackett, and that’s the only damn reason they’re doing this. She doesn’t take assignments that remind her of crap she doesn’t want to relive, and she doesn’t let the Alliance use her like the blunt weapon she knows she can be, but if Hackett says there’s a chance of a geth invasion, then there’s a chance of a geth invasion.

But it doesn’t half remind her of the aforementioned crap she does her best to avoid.

_Small outposts, increased activity_ , _hit and run attacks_ , too many phrases that make her grit her teeth. Four outposts down, and here they are on another damn moon in another damn prefab. This is _exactly_ the kind of crap she didn’t want, to the letter.

She gets Garrus’ attention from behind the crate across the way, flashes her fingers up in quick succession in the signal for ‘four’, turian style, for the benefit of her two-fingered squadmates. Tali responds quickly with the correct signal of acknowledgment, but Garrus just moves silently into position. Shepard rolls her eyes. They’ve never had a misunderstanding, but she’s starting to see why he might have pissed some of his C-Sec colleagues off. It’d be easy to make the mistake of thinking he isn’t a team player if you were looking at the wrong things.

She supposes that aiming at flashlights is a bit better than aiming between four eyes, but sometimes, she’s not so sure. Tali’s explained geth consciousness to her in half a dozen ways, none of which really help her conceptualize it, but the point is it’s _there._ However they network, they’re genuine AI, and Shepard has read enough early twentieth century pulp sci-fi to feel uncomfortable. No doubt Tali would laugh herself stupid at the three laws of robotics, but here’s the thing: Shepard’s not all that keen to do her part in annihilating a species, however synthetic. She files that under ‘crap she tries to avoid’, for obvious reasons.

_Three_ , Garrus signals, a little smugly. Funny how he manages that with a helmet on. Shepard ducks around the corner of her crate, and abandons all thoughts of flashlights and consciousness and what it means to be shooting one; it isn’t helpful. Two shots from her pistol and the geth is down, Tali moving round her back to flank the remaining two without prompting. They make a good team.

Shepard stays crouched behind her cover as the last two crackle and screech their way to the floor, half expecting another wave. She motions for Tali and Garrus to follow as another eerie sound echoes across the prefab, which seems to startle Tali. She scrambles to her feet.

“Get down, there might be more.”

“I don’t think so, Shepard.” Tali holsters her gun and starts to cross the room, uncharacteristically ignoring the order.

“Tali!”

“I know that song -”

Shepard swears under her breath and dashes out behind her, thankful to see Garrus covering her back. She’s right - _luckily_ \- and as no more geth emerge from the corners, Shepard stops gritting her teeth a little. Tali has stopped in front of a screen, utterly transfixed by whatever recording it is that she sees, and so Shepard takes a breath before she speaks, tamping down on her irritation. Tali always has her reasons.

“Hey, listen -”

“It’s a traditional quarian lament,” Tali says, but whether she’s horrified or fascinated Shepard can’t say. “From before.” She doesn’t need to say from ‘before’ what.

The quarian on the screen is swaying gently from side the side, the audience mirroring her slowly in synchronized ripples. It makes Shepard deeply uneasy. “Tali, we should grab the data and go.”

“They’re transmitting it back beyond the Veil. It’s a warning.”

“To let them know the base is destroyed,” Garrus guesses, having joined them across the room. “To request reinforcements.”

“I’m… not sure, I can’t see any evidence of - “ Tali shakes her head. “No reinforcements requested. They’re just transmitting this song, in real time.”

“Why this song?”

“Quarian culture is the only culture the geth would know,” Garrus says with a shrug. “Maybe they like it.”

Shepard gives him a sharp look. “You’re saying they’re being sentimental?”

“More than that,” Tali says, and not for the first time Shepard wishes she was better at reading her emotions by voice alone. “It’s… traditional.”

“What is?’

The pause before Tali speaks is heavy.

“At funerals,” she says quietly.

They stand in uncomfortable silence as the song slowly fades away. Shepard closes her eyes for a moment and lets herself take a deep breath. Beneath the helmet it’s private, or private enough. She keeps her face pointed resolutely towards the screen, as does Tali, but she has the distinct impression Garrus is watching her.

The song comes to a shuddering, mournful end. Nobody moves.

“If there’s any data we can use,” Shepard says finally, “we grab it and go. Got it?”

She leaves Tali to it and ostensibly does another sweep round the back of the prefab, stepping around the fallen geth without looking at them.

Hackett was probably right. This could easily have been the start of an invading force, and she was the best choice for the job by far. She has no doubt that it needed to be done. Hell, the geth have tried to put her in the ground more times than she can count, she shouldn't object to returning the favor.

She reloads her rifle with a terse snap, then taps the side of her helmet to make the connection with _Normandy_. The line is a little muffled by whatever the geth lined this prefab with, but clear enough.

“This is Shepard,” she says, “I need an ETA for pick up.” She's ditched a lot of the Alliance radio protocols, which she figures is just what happens when you spend too much time with Joker.

“Give me ten, commander.”

“Roger that.” She turns back to Tali. “How's that data coming?”

“Got it, Shepard.” Tali taps one last thing into the console and then turns to face her, tugging at her hands with small, excited little gestures. “There's… this is more than we expected.”

“Useful?”

“Very useful,” Tali clarifies, and as she wrings her hands once more Shepard thinks she might know where this is headed.

“We'll send it to Alliance command, see what they make of it. I'm sure Hackett will be interested.”

“He's not the only one. Shepard, this is a lot to ask -”

“It's yours,” she says, the decision easier than Alliance command would probably like it to be.

“I - Thank you, Shepard.” Tali bows her head for a moment, and Shepard returns the gesture, not knowing if it's a quarian convention or just Tali’s own idiosyncratic one, but it feels right to echo it either way. Her gratitude is written plain to see, mask or no mask. “This means a lot to my people, and to me.”

It feels good, and she holds onto that, because not a damned thing otherwise about this operation has.

 

-

 

The news vids are looping on the screen in Anderson’s office as he waves her in, frowning to a point past her on the wall as he holds two fingers to his ear. Commlink with Udina, she's guessing, and so she wanders over to the balcony to give him some space.

“ _\- assisting with recovery efforts after the geth attack thwarted by Commander Shepard, as promised in his reelection campaign -”_

She tunes the vids out and tries to enjoy the view. The Presidium didn't take the brunt of Sovereign’s attack and nor has it suffered from lack of funding, volunteers, or resources to repair the small amount of fire it did take, so there isn't much to see in the way of debris or damage. That's one reason she can't enjoy the view, knowing the Wards are paying a higher price.

The other reason is knowing what she knows now. She looks out across the lakes and greenery and sees nothing less than a giant mousetrap. Seeing Sovereign slot itself so neatly into the structure of the Presidium is all she can think about. Maybe the Protheans really did disable it, maybe they didn't, but disarmed or not it's Reaper technology, and that's enough for her to distrust it. She doesn't mind the ‘Savior of the Citadel’ as far as epithets go, but she was never defending it for its own sake.

“I've made my position clear,” Anderson says, and it's only because Shepard knows him that she hears the sharpness in his voice. “I understand.”

He looks at her as she suppresses a grin, holding up his hand and nodding towards his desk. “Shepard?” he says, as she takes a seat. “No, I haven't seen her.” Her grin widens as his lips get thinner. “Of course, ambassador. We'll talk later.” He disconnects the call and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Bad time?”

“No, no, I wanted to talk.” Anderson reaches below his desk and pulls out two glasses. “Drink?”

Shepard leans back in her chair with a smirk. “Don't we have a meeting with the Council later?”

“Why do you think I'm asking?” He produces a distinctly expensive looking bottle with a flourish that is clearly deliberate, and starts to pour. She eyes it suspiciously.

“Are you trying to butter me up, Councilor?” Her tone is light and teasing but Anderson’s answering sigh is heavy.

“Wouldn't dream of trying, Shepard,” he says, but he looks up at her with an expression that says otherwise. “Strictly off the record, the Council is going to give you a new assignment.”

The quick flicker of optimism she feels is cautious, but unmistakable. “About time they quit stalling.”

Anderson shake his head. “They're still stalling, in their own way. They want you to eradicate the geth in the Terminus -”

“No,” she says, cutting across before he's even finished. “They can't ask me to do that.”

He stays silent for a few moments, taking a seemingly leisurely sip as he watches her breathe heavily through her nose, teeth clenched and anger held tightly back behind her tongue. “They are,” he says finally, “and so am I.”

“No,” she says again, hating how petulant she sounds. It's nostalgically familiar, this scene. Shepard digging in her heels, all piss and vinegar, Anderson calmly containing and redirecting her anger, digging his own heels in with a dignity and poise she's still not learned. She's been here before.

They first met just after Torfan, when Shepard was skipping her psych evals and storming out on admirals offering her promotions. She only wishes they'd met a little sooner, when her particular brand of righteous anger used to get the better of her even more. When she shoved the Alliance recruitment administrator into the wall for making a comment about her omnitool, and spent her first night as a new recruit in disgrace.

He’d taken one look at her and decided it was stolen, but Shepard knew the difference between salvaged and stolen. She didn't have much, but she had that, and it _mattered._ So she grabbed him by the collar and didn't stop to think it wasn't the smartest thing to do when your form is already missing a permanent address and any standard aptitude scores.

“You know I wouldn't ask if I didn't have to,” Anderson says, and she slumps forward in her chair and sighs noisily, defiance knocked out of her. She must be getting old. “I wanted to explain before the Council spring it on you with their usual tact and diplomacy.”

Shepard drags her hands through her hair and tries to shake off her agitation. “They know the geth aren't the real threat. They _must_ know.”

“They're afraid.”

“And they want me out their hair,” she says, the realization a bitter one.

Anderson doesn't lie to her. “They need time.”

“So I should waste mine to give them more than they've already had?”

“It doesn't have to be a waste. We know the geth were working with Saren, there could be more intel out there for the taking. They're the best lead we have.” Anderson shrugs. “See it as an investigation.”

“You said ‘eradicate’.”

“They said that. I'm saying investigation.”

She laughs without humor. “Same difference, when they both end with dead geth.”

“It makes all the difference.”

“You keep saying that,” Shepard says almost angrily, but she sighs and rubs her forehead in a weary gesture. “We don't have a better lead, though. I can keep making noise here, but even the Savior of the Citadel starts to sound like a broken record eventually.”

“It won't hurt to try playing at ‘obedient spectre’, either,” Anderson says, and when she looks up his expression is amused. “Get on their good side for once.”

“I thought that was your job.”

“My _job_ ,” he says, “is to protect humanity's interests in the wider galactic community. The Reapers are the top of my list.”

Shepard squares her jaw. “How long?”

“A few months, no more. Enough to give you a chance and to give them some time to process.”

“I get _Normandy_?”

“Of course. Williams has already requested a permanent transfer, Doctor T’soni has indicated she's happy to stay, that turian of yours has asked for extended leave from C-Sec -”

Shepard raises an accusing eyebrow; Anderson almost never calls turians by their names. Whether it's intentional or just a force of habit remains to be seen, but she's not about to let it slide. Not least because it feels good to turn the tables, and call him on _his_ bullshit.

“Vakarian,” he says, “the one who was investigating Saren.” As if she could somehow have feasibly forgotten which particular turian he was referring to. Then again, Garrus isn't much more than an abstract to Anderson, he had to sit that one out. None of them are. It's a strange realization about a man she never imagined not serving with.

“He shouldn't have done that,” she says absently, not in the least surprised. Tali has also registered her interest in staying even past her pilgrimage, despite Shepard's transparently insincere objections. Wrex was the only one who took her at her word, and good for him. She only hopes they cross paths again.

“It's a good crew, and you know them,” Anderson says, still selling it to her even after she's resigned herself to taking the assignment. “Looks good for interspecies cooperation, too.”

“Spoken like a true politician,” she says, finally managing a grin. Anderson returns it with his own half-grimace, which is the first time she remembers that maybe this wouldn't have been his first choice of assignment, either. “So they'll brief me later?”

He nods, relieved. “Effective immediately.”

Shepard shoots him another weary look, then takes her glass and knocks it back, not without melodrama. Anderson chuckles.

“Two months,” he says. “That's all.”

“Right.”

“You have my word on that.”

“And then what?”

“Hell of a question,” he says with a sigh, “I hope I have an answer for you. Until then, stay sharp. Don't take risks, come back in one piece.”

“Don't worry,” Shepard says, her grin sharp, “I've no intention of dying running pointless errands for the Council.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

Dying’s a hell of a thing, but coming back from the dead is the real hell, and one that is - quite literally - reserved just for her.

The Illusive Man taps his cigarette thoughtfully, and the QEC connection is clear and expensive enough that she can see the ash falling from the tip. Anyone who still smokes something real these days has something to prove. There are better ways to mainline nicotine, there are better things to mainline than nicotine, and there are better ways to spend your credits if you’re looking for old-world glamour. Of all the reasons she has to dislike him, it’s the stupidest, but there it is. Every time he takes another theatrical drag she wants to grind her teeth.

“You’ve seen the ship,” he says, in a self-satisfied way that clearly says, _I know I’ve got you._

She folds her arms. “I’ve seen her.”

“All the innovative features of the SR-1, plus a few improvements.”

“I’ll bet,” Shepard says, thinking not of the SR-2 but of herself, how she hasn’t slept in two days and barely eaten in almost as long. She’s processing that along the same lines as how she processed the reveal of _Normandy_ : taking the advantages for what they are and what they offer to the mission, and not letting herself think too much what it means for her personally. She’s not ready for that.

“No expense spared,” he says, as if she needs reminding. He’s forgotten that they left the price tag on her, evident in both the countless missing scars and the two new ones she doesn’t remember earning.

“You’ve gone to a lot of effort.”

“Humanity’s fate is in the balance. No cost is too great.” He taps his cigarette again. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you what’s at stake.”

“You don’t.”

“Good. You have the dossiers, you know what to do.” He casts his gaze lazily over her as she remains standing stubbornly with her arms folded, showing no sign of cutting the connection. “Is there something else, Shepard?”

“No expense spared,” she repeats, “when you could’ve raised an entire _army_ for what I cost you.”

“We wanted you,” he says, just an empty reiteration of what Lawson has said on many occasions. He sounds as bored of repeating himself as she does. “You’re the Savior of the Citadel.”

“I lost more human lives than in any conflict situation since the First Contact War.”

Now she has his attention. “An unfortunate situation.”

“I remember hearing Cerberus’ name when all the pro-human protests broke out on Earth.”

He takes a moment to mull this over, watching her with those shrewd, steely eyes of his. “I can’t pretend to have agreed with every decision you’ve made, that’s true. But that doesn’t detract from my belief that you are humanity’s best chance at wiping out the Collectors, based on your record.”

“Which part of my record, exactly?”

The Illusive Man doesn’t smile, but his lips tighten with amusement. He’s not going to give her the satisfaction of saying it. “You’re infamous for a great many things.”

“I’m not a xenophobe.”

“I’ve explained Cerberus’ aims to you, Shepard, if you continue to wilfully misunderstand them, that’s not my problem.” He stubs his cigarette out vigorously.

“No,” she says, “I think we understand each other perfectly.”

She cuts the connection, but it’s an empty gesture. He has her in every way that matters, not least because he _knows_ he’s presented her with a problem she can’t walk away from.

He wanted a butcher, and so he brought her back from meat and tubes, from a dead slab of human flesh in a morgue to a killing machine more deadly than she’d ever been before.

It’s always about Torfan. She knows this now.

 

-

 

The last place she thinks to find Garrus is medbay, which is why it’s the last place she looks. She knows Chakwas has always had a good rapport with all of her non-human crewmates, but she’s still surprised to see Garrus actually seeking out medical treatment without Chakwas getting Shepard to pull rank and drag him in. At least, that’s how things used to be.

A lot has changed since then.

She strides in without thinking too much about it, coming to an abrupt stop when she realizes she’s intruding on a medical procedure. Garrus is sat on the edge of one of the beds, fingers curled tightly around the edge as Chakwas changes the dressing on the side of his face.

“Shepard,” he says, turning his face ever so slightly so as to angle it away from her. She catches only a glimpse of the raw skin underneath. “Something you need?”

“Nothing urgent,” she says, tapping at the datapad in her hands for something to do with them. “I can catch you later if now’s a bad time.”

He doesn’t turn his head. “I can talk.”

“Uh, sure,” she says, and finds herself hovering awkwardly in the middle distance as Chakwas continues to carefully detach the dressing with her deft fingers. If she takes a step back she’s acknowledging his discomfort openly, but coming closer is obviously out of the question. She tries to lean casually against Chakwas’ desk. “Just wanted to run the duty roster past you, Chambers has put Johnson down with Donnelly, and I know we talked about getting her -”

“Familiar with the Thannix, I remember.” Garrus casts Shepard a sideways glance that is all unintended possessiveness, and she has to bite down on a grin. Garrus and his guns. “Although, for the record, you won't need a back up.”

At that, she lets herself grin. “Clear an afternoon, would you? I'd feel better if we had someone up here who knew what they were doing if you're on my ground team, unless -” She shrugs. “Unless you're saying you'd rather _stay_ -”

Garrus just gives her a look. “Not what I said.”

“So you’ll clear some time,” she says, and hears Chakwas chuckle behind him. It feels natural enough to turn her attention to the situation at hand, not letting herself look up from the duty roster to give him some privacy. “Cybernetics all functioning fine?”

“They’ve taken very nicely,” Chakwas says, peeling back a final layer of dressing. “It’s just a matter of taking care with the skin grafts now, turian plating can be tricky when it comes to scar tissue.”

Garrus turns to look at Shepard properly as Chakwas reaches for the new dressing, giving her a unimpeded look at the wounded side of his face. It’s raw and misshapen and clearly painful, though that’s not what makes her stomach jolt unpleasantly. She thinks of Garrus bleeding out on the floor of Omega and how certain she’d been that they’d lost him, and she meets his eyes without a bandage or visor for him to hide behind for the first time. His gaze is defiant, defensive. Maybe ashamed.

He drops his eyes after a long moment and turns his head back, leaving Shepard a little shaken. It’s one thing to suspect that his wry comments and jokes aren’t all that they seem, and it’s another thing entirely to see it written on his face. She finds that she can’t quite summon anything to say.

Chakwas smoothes down the replacement bandage. “There. You’ll need to keep it dry for a while. Your next injections are in three days, and then the week after that we can start -” She holds a hand to her ear and frowns. “Thank you, EDI. I’ll be right there.” She flashes a smile at Garrus, and rolls her eyes at Shepard. “Duty calls, I’m afraid, you are a rather accident prone bunch. We’ll catch up later.”

She leaves them alone in the medbay with a heavy silence between them, but Garrus makes no move to leave, so Shepard stays too, edging closer now the bandage is back between them. He runs a hand along his would-be jawline - it’s not quite the same with turians - in a gesture that is oddly human as he seems to test out his mobility with a wince. She watches his mandibles rotate outwards with badly hidden curiosity, and he catches her watching with a start, which he hides not much better than she does. She covers for them both with a grin.

“No krogan women lining up yet, huh?”

“I hear they're all pretty busy on Tuchanka.”

“Oh, sure, blame the genophage,” she says, relaxing into the ease of their back and forth and leaning on the edge of the bed opposite his. “What about mine, reckon I'd be popular with the krogan ladies?” Shepard smirks and gestures at her cheeks; they've faded a lot but she hasn't joked about them before, and she's surprised to find it comes rather more easily than she'd thought. Maybe there's something to Garrus’ coping mechanisms after all.

Plus, it makes him laugh. “Krogan love you, Shepard, we've established that. You're the closest thing to a krogan woman we've got onboard, anyway -” He catches himself in the middle of the sentence and coughs awkwardly. “You're not going to headbutt me, are you?”

“And ruin your roguish good looks?” Shepard raises an eyebrow as Garrus coughs again. “You're safe.”

“Uh, good, because the painkillers haven't kicked in yet.”

She frowns. “I didn't know you still needed them.”

His awkward, amusing embarrassment is replaced by a heavier sort of shame. “Not often. It's fine, Shepard. It won't affect my performance on the ground.”

“I wasn't worried about that,” she says, and she's not good at soft but she does her best. “If you're cutting corners on your treatment to make sure you're not out of action -”

“I'm not.”

“Okay,” she says, even though she knows he is. He's refused several procedures Chakwas recommended, including some that would fall mostly under being cosmetic. He wants the scars, though it's obvious he hates them. Chakwas left that information delicately in Shepard's hands for her to approach, and she turns it over in her mind now, chewing on the inside of her cheek. “Just takes time, I guess.”

Garrus won't meet her eyes. “I guess.”

“Listen, Garrus, maybe this isn't my place to say, but I do know what it's like to - to lose a squad. Your squad. I know that sometimes, when something leaves a mark, it's all you can see in the mirror.” She takes a breath, Garrus’ silence unnerving but encouraging her on nonetheless. “And I know that it passes, eventually. One day you look in the mirror and just see yourself, scars and all. Everything heals, it just takes time.”

“Time,” he echoes, and then shakes his head. He slides from the bed and clips his visor into place, suddenly businesslike. “I don't need time, Shepard. I need Sidonis in the ground.”

It winds her even as it doesn't surprise her. The Garrus that Omega delivered to her is cut differently from the Garrus she used to know, though she sees them both in front of her. “You sure about that?”

“Yeah,” he says, and then he turns away again, presenting her with his good side once more. “Of all people, I thought you'd understand.”

That's the real blow, as unintentional as it is. She closes her eyes for a brief moment. _Of all people_. “Think about it,” she says faintly, still reeling.

There was a time when a word from her would've stopped him in his tracks, but that was the old Garrus, without the scars or the attitude or the haunted look she kept getting glimpses of. The new one just shakes his head.

“I have,” he says shortly, and crosses to the door with brisk steps, the conversation over. It can be hard drawing much more out of him when he's like this, so she stays where she is. He pauses at the door. “But… thanks for the pep talk, Shepard.”

She watches him leave with a weak smile.

 

-

 

Kasumi is conspicuously absent from her usual perch, though whether she’s actually absent or just invisible is anyone’s guess. Shepard used to find it unnerving that she couldn’t ever know the difference, but she’s learned that they’re one and the same when it comes down to it. If she can’t see or hear her, she may as well just continue as if she isn’t there. Kasumi exists on a different plane to the rest of the crew, one where dead men speak and the living have no secret too small or too personal for her to know. She’s as astute as she is nosy, so her discretion can be relied on. More than EDI, maybe, but Shepard doesn’t want to think about that.

Maybe Kasumi is sat opposite her right now, watching her pour her third drink in silence. It’s an oddly companionable thought.

It isn’t until halfway through her fourth - and that isn’t enough to get her drunk, not with Cerberus enhanced kidneys - that the door slides open and she half expects to see Kasumi leaving, giving her the true solitude she so obviously wants. She looks over her shoulder, and sure enough, there’s a certain way the air ripples by the airlock that catches her eye. There’s also Garrus stood in the doorway, watching her shrewdly.

She’s torn between dismissing him and inviting him to grab a glass, but he makes his own decision before she has a chance to make her mind up. She’s pleased to note that her mind is a little sluggish; she’d been afraid she’d never quite make it to drunk. He takes the seat next to her and waits for her to push a glass towards him in grudging invitation. She hadn’t wanted or planned on company, but if it’s anyone, she’s glad it’s him, for a lot of long, complex, and yet surprisingly simple reasons.

“Pretty sure that’s not for human consumption,” he says conversationally, tugging at the bottle in front of her.

She raises her eyebrows. “Is this an intervention?”

“Just keeping you company, Shepard.”

“So get pouring, _Vakarian_. If you’re not drinking, you’re babysitting, and I don’t need a babysitter. So drink up.” She places the bottle firmly in front of him. “That’s an order.”

“Yes ma’am,” he mutters, but grins and takes the drink. He pours his own glass and they sit in silence, a different kind of companionable to the invisible company of Kasumi. Shepard spins her glass between her fingers and tries not to notice the sharp way he’s watching her from behind his visor.

There was a time when she wouldn’t have let Garrus see her like this, but things have changed. The old _Normandy_ didn’t have a bar anyway, so if melancholy came knocking she’d have waited it out in her cabin or cleaning guns with Ash in the armory. Garrus would’ve known to leave well alone even if she had, wouldn’t have noted her absence or invited himself to sit down next to her. She’s glad he’s there to remind her that two years can change everything without dying, it makes her feel a little more herself.

“So,” he says slowly, after another half glass between the two of them, “I noticed the date.”

“Figured you had.” She sighs, not looking up from her glass. “Seven years.”

Garrus stays quiet for a moment, but she resists the urge to meet his eyes. “You told me once,” he says eventually, “that everything gets better in time.”

She tries for a laugh. “Do as I say, not as I do.”

“This doesn’t look like better, Shepard.”

“I’m fine, Garrus,” she says, finally meeting his gaze. “Sometimes you just need to take a moment, that’s all.” She hesitates. “When the dead are a little louder than the living.”

“I hear you,” he says, and she knows that he does.

There’s another long silence as Garrus taps his fingers softly on the bartop.

“I can go, if you’d like -”

“No,” she says, and reaches out to put her hand on top of his. They both seem to startle from the unexpected contact, but she holds it there over his wrist to make her point. “I could use the company.”

Garrus recovers quickly. “So you _do_ need babysitting.”

“Just shut up and drink,” she says, and lets go of his wrist. She casts him a sideways glance as he makes a point of finishing his glass, and some of the melancholy that's been pressing in on her all day lifts.

She's more tipsy than she'd expected, she realizes, and now that's it's just her, her lowered inhibitions, and Garrus, she finds herself very much reminded that there's another shift in their relationship beside the things she lets him see.

“How'd you find me?”

He grins. “I used to work for C-Sec, Shepard, you always check the bars first.”

“What am I now, a criminal?” she grouses, pulling the bottle back towards her.

“You really want me to answer that?”

She considers it. “Nope.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure, shoot.” Shepard leans her elbows on the bar, trying to look carefully oblivious to the curious way he's watching her.

“Why didn't you take spectre reinstatement? It would've been as good as Council endorsement, even working with Cerberus.”

Shepard winces. “I know. Anderson wasn't thrilled about it, after all the trouble he went to. Honestly, Garrus, I lost my temper. I'm not proud of it.”

“They liked you better as a dead martyr who couldn't call them on their bullshit,” Garrus says, his own temper showing. His loyalty is such a strange and precious thing amongst everything else she's dealing with, and never fails to warm her. “They've never made anything easy for you.”

“I'm not disagreeing, but I shouldn't have thrown it back in their faces.” She pauses, gives him a mischievous look out the corner of her eye. “Felt good at the time, though.”

That gets a grin. “I can imagine. What did Anderson say?”

“Not a lot.” It's hard to keep a casual tone when it stings so much to admit it aloud. “He doesn't - things aren't the same with us. Won't be as long as I'm flying Cerberus colors.”

“I'm sure he understands why you are.”

“Yeah,” she says, and allows herself a sigh. “But I wouldn't take the risk either, I get it. He's still sticking his neck out for me, he always has.”

“If it weren't for him, I'd call the Council entirely useless.”

“I owe him,” she says thoughtfully, “more than I can count.”

Garrus coughs pointedly.

“Vakarian, _please_. I've pulled your ass out the fire more than once -”

“So, that maw back on Tuchanka…”

“It was under control.”

“Right,” Garrus says, and leans back on his stool with a self-satisfied smugness that makes her roll her eyes. “Just a little harmless acid.”

“No one likes a smartass.” She pushes the bottle back towards him with a half-hearted glare as she fights another grin. “But fine: I owe you. Happy?”

“Very.” His mandibles flare as wide as she's seen them. “It's _possible_ I owe you, too. Just once or twice.”

“Let's call it even,” she suggests with a grin, holding her glass up in a toast. He doesn't take the bait, mandibles retreating to a more thoughtful position.

“I think I've still got some catching up to do, Shepard,” he says, suddenly serious, and she meets his gaze again, meeting his sincerity with her own.

“My pleasure, Garrus,” she says softly, and then clears her throat and looks away when the moment drags out and she feels abruptly too drunk to know quite how to handle it. “Listen, thanks for the company tonight, I didn't realize I needed it.”

“Anytime.”

She drags her gaze back from her glass to find him watching her, his usual steady gaze and the usual infuriating blinking of his visor as difficult to read as ever. There's not much more than a few inches between them, and damn if she isn't drunk enough to be clumsily, painfully aware of every single one.

The problem is that she's attracted to him.

Or rather, the problem _isn't_ , because there's light at the end of that particular tunnel, albeit a one time offer before probable death.

No, the problem is that it doesn't make any goddamn sense, and she's not even sure where _he's_ at with it all, either. There's nothing about him that ought to be appealing beyond the simple fact that he's Garrus, but whether it's because of that or because she's apparently just an enthusiastic xenophile now, she really can't tell. Shepard's never been one to get either prudish or analytical about her own sexuality, but when she catches herself noticing things like the mottled brown of his neck or the strange sinewy quality to his wrists, she has to ask herself what the _fuck_ is up with that. He's Garrus, but he's also a giant alien with a mouth full of pointed teeth and a fucking _exoskeleton_ , or something. But apparently she's into that these days, which isn't a _problem_ , but it's taking a little to get her head around. The alcohol helps.

As for Garrus, who knows where his head’s at. Since the Sidonis situation blew over she hasn't felt the same keen concern that'd been following her around ever since she scraped him up off the floor of Omega, which is something. If she should be worrying about anything it should be her willingness to put herself between Garrus and his target rather than her willingness to get naked and see what works, but she didn't even have to think before she stepped into his scope, whereas she's been doing a lot of thinking about the other part.

He's still watching her.

“You're drunk,” he says slowly, clearly delighted.

“You know, with observational skills like that, you could be a detective.”

“No one likes a smartass, Shepard.”

“You're speaking from experience, I take it,” she says, and downs the rest of her drink pointedly. “You're right. I'm drunk.”

“Sorry, could you just repeat that first part -”

“I'm calling it a night,” she says, swinging her legs round and hopping down from the stool. She has to grab at the bar for balance, which only widens Garrus’ grin. She lets go of the bar with a defiant glare, raising a hand before putting her finger firmly on her nose. The look he gives her suggests that turian field sobriety tests might be a little different. Nonetheless, she's made her point. Probably.

“I don't have to carry you to bed, do I?”

The opening is just too good.

“Not unless you want to,” she says, and backs out towards the airlock still facing him with a grin.

There's a short but very satisfying moment where he seems sufficiently flustered to make a smart reply. Then he huffs out a quiet chuckle, as if he's worked out she's not being entirely serious, though recognizing the sentiment is still very much there. She hopes, anyway. She's bad enough at subtlety when she's sober.

“Goodnight, Shepard,” he says dryly, and she steps out onto the main crew deck with her grin still firmly in place.

“That'll be all,” she says, and his sarcastic salute is the last thing she sees before making her unsteady way to the elevator.

He sat down next to her with his scarred side facing her, she realizes. It keeps the smile on her face all the way up to her cabin.

 

-

 

She finds Joker in medbay bickering with Tali, in the sort of friendly but highly charged way she recognizes as a symptom of the high pressure situation they find themselves in. She lets herself in the door quietly, and they barely spare her a glance.

“I’m a quarian,” Tali says firmly, “I know a thing or two about antibiotics.”

“Okay-okay, I’m just _saying_ that I only broke a few bones and I don’t see any call to go sticking me full of needles -”

“Doctor Chakwas’ notes say that you’re prone to infection, especially during the healing process -”

“Well, I feel fine.”

“You might not even know about it until the fever starts!”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, how about it, Tali?” Joker grabs weakly for the shot in her hand, but she yanks it out of reach. “C’mon -”

Tali’s impassive face turns towards her, but Shepard can see the exasperated plea behind the faint glow of her eyes.

“Joker,” she says, “take the damn shot. We don’t know what we’ll be facing through the relay and we can’t afford to take a risk with infection. We stick to Chakwas’ notes.”

“Thank you, Shepard.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Joker snaps, though he’s looking possibly the least fine Shepard’s ever seen him. He’s taken the loss of the crew about as well as she has, and she knows she’s been terse bordering on downright unapproachable. It’s not about the shot.

“We'll get them back,” she says, taking the tube from Tali and holding it out to him. He glares at it.

“Right.”

“I mean it, Joker. I don't leave my crew behind.” He meets her eyes with apprehension, but then he sighs and rubs his forehead. “Even the stubborn ones who don’t take their meds,” she adds, and he snorts, but takes the tube from her.

"I know,” he says, no lingering resentment this time, and she gives him a gentle slap on the shoulder.

“I need you at your best.”

“Aye aye.”

“Tali, you got everything you need?”

“Enough antibiotics for any minor suit ruptures, Shepard. I’m ready to go.”

“We can do this,” she says, and she feels a rush of exhilarated purpose despite the uncomfortable emptiness of _Normandy_ and the enormity of what lies before them.

 _Why me_ , she'd asked, and she finally has her answer. Torfan was an exercise in merciless efficiently, and she can use that against the Collectors just as the Illusive Man had planned. Torfan was something else, too, the parts that haunt her are the names of the dead under her command. Far too many to carve into a visor, but she holds them just as close as Garrus in the way she’s carried herself ever since. She knows the cost now, and she knows how far she’s willing to go to avoid paying that price, and she has no intention of getting spaced this time.

Today, she is every inch the Butcher of Torfan, and she’ll get the job done right.

 

-

 

When Shepard asks Garrus to stay for the first time, lazily, through half-closed eyes, he goes so quiet and looks so uncomfortable that she thinks she’s made a mistake.

“It’s fine if you don’t want to,” she says, trying to sound as blissfully unconcerned with everything as she had just a moment ago. “I’m not trying to - it’s fine, really.”

Garrus shakes his head vehemently enough that she feels a bit better. “No, it’s not that, it’s just that I’ve been leaving the dressing off overnight, and it’s -” He pauses and turns away from her, and she fully expects him still to leave from what she can see of the look on his face. He runs a hand over his dressing. “Have you got something I can clean it with?”

“I’ve got a first aid kit somewhere.”

“That’ll do,” he says, still visibly embarrassed, and Shepard startles into action, heaving herself off the bed with a mournful sigh and crossing to the bathroom, where she rummages through the shelves of disorganized junk - the place has needed some serious reorganization since the chaos of the Omega relay - to locate the first aid kit. She clicks it open.

“What do you need?”

“Antiseptic will do,” he says, his voice coming from the bathroom door. She hands it to him wordlessly, and he positions himself in front of the mirror, fingers starting to tug gently at the edges of the dressing. It's evident he doesn't usually do this for himself by the awkward way he's craning his neck.

She lets him carefully peel back the majority of it before she moves a little closer, waiting until he's standing a little less stiffly and the line of his shoulders is set less uncomfortably.

“Let me get the bit round the back,” she says, and Garrus drops his fingers obediently after a brief hesitation. He has to lean right over her sink as she reaches up on the balls of her feet, and she finds herself grinning a little.

“Well, this is romantic,” he says, having apparently regained his sense of self deprecating humor.

“What can I say, the scars drive me _wild_.”

“Maybe next you could oil my spurs.”

“Don't push it,” she says, and pulls the last of the dressing off and drops it in the sink. “What next?”

“I wipe the adhesive off and leave it overnight.”

“No ointment, or..?”

“I don't know if you've noticed, but the look I'm going for here is ‘rugged.’”

“Uhuh.” She reaches across to grab a clean square of cotton gauze. “How tender is it?”

“There's very little sensation at the moment, but it should improve.”

“The doc’s orders?”

“Keep it clean and dry, the usual.”

Shepard can't stop herself running a thumb over the whorls that are starting to form, and she knows he sees it in the mirror even if he can't feel it. “Not bad for a run in with a gunship,” she says eventually, and feels his grin beneath her thumb.

“A good reminder not to piss off every merc on Omega at once, at least.”

“Is that why you didn't want the cosmetic treatments?” She meets his gaze in the mirror as she sets about carefully wiping off the remaining adhesive. “Your rugged good looks notwithstanding, obviously.”

“Obviously,” he says, and catches her wrist as she dabs at his neck. “That's part of it.”

She lets him hold her hand in place. “What's the rest?”

“I guess the rest is about looking in the mirror and seeing yourself.”

“Okay,” she says, and lets her palm rest against his jaw. “Didn't think that pep talk left much of an impression on you, to be honest.”

“We hear what we want to hear,” he says wryly, and angles his head into her hand, just a little. “I screwed up.”

“Garrus -”

“Come on, Shepard, you wouldn't let me stand here and tell you Torfan went down exactly how you'd like. It is what it is, and I screwed up. It's okay.” His eyes scan over the scarring in the mirror. “This is me.”

“I also said it gets better, if you recall.”

“I remember that too, but I'm not so sure. I think you just live with it. This is me living with it.”

“You live with it,” she repeats doubtfully, and shakes her head.

“Don't you think?”

“I don't think much of your pep talks,” she says, and he laughs quietly. “You're right, you do live with it. You live with it every damn day.”

“You can't choose your legacy,” he says, “but you can choose what to do with it.”

“This isn't how inspirational speeches work, you know. You can't just quote my own lines back at me.” Her thumb traces the thin lines of scarring just below his eyes. “What are you going to do with it, then?”

“Do better,” he says simply, and brushes her shoulder with his other hand. “Piss off every Reaper in the galaxy instead.”

She chuckles weakly. “It's the next order of business.”

“It's a big one.”

“Yeah.”

He pulls her towards him gently and presses his mouth to the crown of her head as she wraps her arm around his waist. It's funny how it's moments like these that crystallize everything,standing naked with the cold floor of her bathroom beneath her feet and the alien feel of Garrus beneath her palms, not that she thinks of him as such anymore. The Reapers aren't knocking at the door quite yet, and that gives them a little more time to just live in this moment. She thinks they might have earned it.

“You owe me a backrub.”

“If that's how you want to cash it in, sure.”

Shepard grins into his shoulder. “If you've got a better idea…”

Whether they've earned it or not, she's taking it.

 

-

 

The minute she's finally onboard _Normandy_ and the airlock has closed behind her is the first moment Shepard really lets herself feel _angry_. She slams her fist against the bulkhead just to exorcise it a little, and then slams it again, harder, on a different spot to open the emergency panel. She yanks out the medkit and jabs her neck with the nearest stim-adrenaline-and-something cocktail without reading the label. She can take it, and her body has been pushed way past its already improbable limits. She needs to keep going just a little longer.

Joker is flying pretty rough already, and she slams into the wall as she hot-foots it to the bridge, pretty sure she's done something to a rib but completely unable to feel it.

“What the _hell,_ Shepard,” he says, at about the same time she bellows for him to get through the damn relay, as if he needed telling.

She's furious with herself. Furious for putting the whole ship at risk, the whole _crew_ , for not waking up sooner, for playing this whole mission so close to her chest on Hackett’s insistence that she lost sight of the danger of going solo.

Joker’s brow furrows with concentration, but she has every confidence in him. It'll be tight, but he'll do it. The crew needn't pay for her actions,  but _-_

She runs back along to the CIC, nearly barreling over a bewildered deckhand, skidding to a halt in front of the galaxy map. She knows she must look like hell, but she ignores Kelly’s gasp, barks at her to prepare for a bumpy ride.

She feels the distinctive sensation of them passing through the relay, and then all there is to do is to watch it blow.

Her fault. Her call.

Her metabolism is burning through the stims with the same frantic energy she's been running on since she woke up, and she feels her legs shaking as she hangs off the railing weakly. It all went so wrong so quickly. Three _hundred thousand_ -

“Shepard, what the hell just happened?” She sees Garrus to her left and hears the sharp mixture of anger and concern in his voice. She closes her eyes. “Shepard?”

“The relay was destroyed,” she says calmly, “the whole system is gone.”

“What?”

She's vaguely aware of the little audience she's gathering, but the crash she's been fighting is coming - _hard_. The way she functions now isn't like how she used to crash from overexertion and exhaustion before in a sort of cumulative fashion, it's more like her body has finally decided the danger is passed and now it needs to shut down ASAP. She stumbles the few steps towards Garrus and falls to her knees, some far away part of her registering that he's at eye level, supporting her weight. He's holding her face as her head lolls forward, Shepard pulling herself up by his wrists.

“Tell me what happened.”

“It was the Reapers,” she says, “Garrus, they were almost here, we have to warn -”

“Almost where?”

“I took the emergency shot by the airlock,” she says, recognizing the final darkening of her vision for what it is. “Tell Chakwas.”

Nothing is clear after that for some time until she comes round in medbay, aching everywhere but alert instantly. She sits up abruptly and Chakwas drops her datapad.

“Good _Lord_ -”

“Bahak?” Shepard says, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed to Karin’s sharp protests.

“Gone,” Garrus says, from where he's leaning against the bulkhead. “The explosion from the relay wiped the whole thing out.”

Shepard feels the weight of the confirmation hit her anew. “It must have stopped them, we'd know by now if the Reapers were through.”

“No Reapers,” Garrus confirms, and she chances a proper look at him. He is unhappy, though in what particular way she can't say, but whatever expression he sees on her face tempers it a little. “Why would the Reapers destroy the relay?”

“They didn't,” she says flatly, “I did.” She can't meet his eyes.

“What?”

“They were coming. We're talking hours, _minutes_. It was our only shot at stopping them from being right on top of us.” She winches as Chakwas adjusts her arm to run something over her ribs. “I'm fine, doc.”

“Like hell you are,” Garrus says, angry again, though she senses not at her.

“A few small fractures, but nothing else broken. I suspect you've got a mild concussion, too.”

“I was knocked out for a while, two days, maybe.” She meets Chakwas’ gaze defiantly. “Smarts a little, but I'm _fine_.”

Chakwas shoos her back into bed. “Arm, please.”

Shepard holds it out in front of her as Chakwas takes her sample, and Garrus folds his arms even tighter.

“Nothing alarming,” Chakwas says, “but your blood sugar is a little low.”

“Her blood sugar,” Garrus repeats, aggrieved, “that’s all?”

Chakwas seems amused by the domesticity of it, and Shepard thinks she would be too if there weren't three hundred thousand souls sitting heavy on her shoulders. The particulars of her health seem inconsequential, and Garrus doesn't look amused either.

“This was supposed to be a favor for Hackett, a simple SAR.”

“I know,” Shepard says, and some of his anger slots into place. “He wasn't lying, Garrus. It just got complicated.”

“You're sure about that?”

“He couldn't have known she was indoctrinated.” She shouldn't have shared the details of the mission with Garrus, strictly speaking, but she'd wanted someone to know where she was, for all the good it'd done. “They all were.”

He relaxes enough to stop glowering, but not enough to stop looking like he might just put his fist through the window. “What happened?”

She drags her hands through her hair. “Three hundred thousand batarians. I couldn't get the warning out in time.” It's not an answer to his question but it's the only one she can give.

There’s a sharp intake a breath from Chakwas, and then the medbay is silent for a few long moments as Shepard drops her head into her hands.

It's Garrus who speaks first. “The Reapers would have killed them, and plenty more.”

“Lucky I got to them first,” she says bitterly, and then before Garrus can interject further, she adds, “Hackett needs to hear about this from me.”

“Shepard -”

“This changes everything,” she says, and fixes Garrus with the most piercing look she can, sensing his need to defend her overriding everything else. She needs him to understand. “The Reapers are coming, and we don't have time. We need to move _now._ ”

She gets a terse nod at that. He doesn't wear the protective dressing over his face anymore, and the soft, pale gray of the scarring makes his whole expression sharper and more wary. Older, probably, to an impartial eye. To her, he looks almost younger, with echoes of the C-Sec officer she used to know.

“You know how this is going to look, Garrus. Any evidence is gone with the system, and the political fallout will be huge. The batarians already want me to be tried for war crimes as it is, and that was _nothing_ compared to -” The words stick in her throat. “If we can't make this time count, it was all for nothing.”

“Hackett has to trust you,” Garrus says, his voice cold. “He owes that that much.”

“He will, but I'll need more than just Hackett,” she says, faintly exasperated at Garrus’ ongoing hostility toward the admiral even as his fierce loyalty eases the ache in her chest. “I don't know how this going to play out, Garrus, but I _need_ you to -”

“I know,” he says, and she knows that he does. He pauses for a moment, as if to collect himself. “Three days, Shepard,” he says eventually, wearily, and Chakwas busies herself suddenly with her datapad. “You can't tell me you're fine.”

“I'm still alive,” she says, feeling that rare sense of precise purposefulness that falls somewhere between hope and fatalism. She is alive, against the odds and despite how many times she has directly defied death, brought back for this precise purpose. Who else could have made that call? Only the Butcher of Torfan. Only her.

The Illusive Man was right.

“Alive isn't fine,” Garrus says, not quite gently, but close enough.

“I can live with it,” she says, and for a moment she almost believes it.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Technically, the guards are supposed to stand just inside the door. It's security protocol for those awaiting the sort of trial she's there for, to enforce the bans on outside contact, make sure she can't take them by surprise and escape, that sort of thing. Most of them don't bother, choosing to stand outside instead out of some mixture of respect, embarrassment, and knowing what rules never really get followed.

Vega always stands inside, hands behind his back and eyes dead ahead, which is how she can tell he's new to this job, because he's actually taking this detail seriously.

His shift starts after they bring her breakfast - they usually do stay to watch her eat, that sort of protocol can't be skipped - but if anyone's trying to smuggle her some explosives in the gray mashed potato they're doing a terrible job at it. After breakfast she takes a shower, Vega walking her along the corridor and standing outside the cubicle in the bathroom dutifully, eyes still dead ahead. He turns his back equally dutifully when she gets changed, which she drags out for as long as possible, to pass the time and to screw with him in equal measure.

She likes him, she can't help it. He's just a kid and he makes her feel about a hundred years old, but she likes messing with him. She is aware, however reluctantly, that her infamy has made her something of a hero, especially within the military. She's sorry to ruin that for him, to be less a legend and more someone who needs babysitting when she takes a shower or who lies on her bed for hours at a time staring listlessly at the ceiling.

They're not really supposed to talk to her, either, aside from the necessary. That's one rule they all stick to, and for now, she hasn't really pushed it. She's also starting to feel slightly starved of personal interaction.

Vega is on hour three of eight of staring at the wall behind her. In another hour, Atkins will relieve him for thirty minutes, and she'll do push ups on the only stretch of floor long enough to lay down on. She feels weird doing them while he's watching, but with Atkins outside she gets a moment of something close to privacy.

In the afternoon, she might get a visitor. Only Anderson has come so far, and he hasn't been allowed long. Last time he left her a battered pack of cards with a significant look, but she hasn't been able to work out what the hell for. There's nothing on the cards, not that Anderson would be so stupid as to try that, and she's surreptitiously tried to peel them apart, but no luck. Maybe a pack of cards is sometimes just a pack of cards.

It's not like she's got anything better to do.

She deals herself two hands of hold ‘em onto the desk, and enjoys the flicker of confusion that spreads across Vega’s face. _Ahah._

“Not much of a game on your own,” she says ruefully. Anderson has never failed her.

“No, ma’am.”

“You play, lieutenant?”

He hesitates. “Sometimes.”

“You any good?”

Another pause. He's not sure how to answer that, so she changes course quickly.

“James, isn't it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You got the crap detail, James,” she says, and grins at him. He shifts his feet awkwardly. “You want a seat?”

“I'm okay.”

“You sure?” She picks up the pack and starts to shuffle. “I could deal you in.”

“I'm, er - I'm not sure that's - I probably shouldn't.”

She hadn't expected to win him over that easily, but the uncertainty in his refusal is refreshing.

“Alright,” she says mildly, and scoops up the cards with a sigh, setting up a game of solitaire instead. She makes a few half-heartedly moves before her mind starts to wander.

It wanders a lot, stuck in here. She thinks about Aratoht, and _Normandy_ , and if they'll let Joker visit, but the one thing she returns to despite herself is Garrus. She thinks about the trouble he's hopefully causing on Palaven, she thinks about his mom, wonders if he's tried to contact her, if he's heard anything about her tribunal out in turian space.

She thinks about other things too, less PG-rated things. It's better than letting herself get bogged down in just how much she misses him. She's got a lot of time to kill.

She can conjure up a pretty decent version of him if she concentrates, she can imagine him sitting on her bed next to her with that turian-shaped smirk she's so familiar with.

 _Well, this is luxurious_ , he'd say.

_I'm a prisoner awaiting trial, Garrus. This isn't shore leave._

Maybe he'd laugh, or crack a joke about C-Sec holding cells. Maybe he'd look her in the eyes with the unshakable belief she'll never get used to.

 _Don't let them get you down, Shepard. You know why you did what you did. They'll see the truth soon enough_.

Or maybe that's just her need for absolution speaking.

 _I'm bored,_ she confesses to the empty air, _I'm bored and I'm crawling the walls._

The shadow of Garrus is more sympathetic than the real one. He'd tell her to get up off her ass and make use of the time, to force them to see the truth of the Reapers, but this one places a hand lightly on her shoulder.

_It's a lonely business, being right all the time when everyone else is wrong._

_I'll say. Lonely and boring._

_Well… Maybe I can help with that_.

If she concentrates, she can almost feel the weight of him press against her side, almost believing that if she turns her head slightly his mandibles would brush her forehead.

He'd put an arm around her, let his hand rest lightly on her waist until she leaned into him, then he'd tighten his grip to pull her closer. No, no - he'd raise his hand to brush her hair away from her neck, fingers trailing over the skin until she shivered - or maybe he'd just weave his fingers through her hair and kiss her, or -

 _Make your mind up, Shepard,_ he says, _which is it?_

 _This is my fantasy,_ she tells him. _Quit being so mouthy._

_I thought that's why you liked me._

Now that, he _would_ say. Figures he's a pain in her ass even as a figment of her imagination.

Maybe he'd move until his mouth was close enough she could feel his breath on her neck, and stay there long enough to wring a frustrated noise from her throat.

 _Don't you think I'd be more direct?_ he says, and puts a hand on her leg, sliding his fingers up the inside of her thigh -

“Screw it,” Vega says, and Shepard just about jumps out of her skin. “Deal me in.”

“Huh?” She clears her throat and drags herself back to reality, shooting Vega a grin. “Take a seat, lieutenant.”

Vega drags the small chair from the corner of the room and sits, absurdly large on the spindly chair.

“So, what're we playing for?” she says, and grins even wider at his expression. “I'm kidding, James. All I've got are clothes, and I'm not sure you'd fit in mine.”

“Flattery isn't going to make me go easy on you, commander,” he says, and she raises an eyebrow.

“Who’s flattering who? I'm stripped of my rank for the time being, you know that.”

“I'm not here to play the brass’ games,” he says, “just doing my job.”

“Which is?”

“Keeping you safe, commander.”

“Really?” She gives him a piercing look across the table. “That's how they're spinning it?”

“You'd be surprised,” he says, and then as she keeps staring expectantly at him adds, “I'm not really s’posed to… tell you this stuff -”

She keeps her gaze steady and watches him squirm.

“You're not exactly a big hit on Khar’shan these days, commander. There's a lot of people who'd like to see you dead.”

“The Hegemony wouldn't try anything like that, not before the trial. It's not their style.

“Not officially, sure.”

Shepard snorts. “They're really worried about this, huh?”

“I'm just doing my job,” he repeats stubbornly, then winces slightly at the cards on front of him: a reminder that he isn't, strictly speaking, doing his job to the letter. He doesn't seem to think better of it, though. She likes him a little bit more.

Shepard leans forward onto her elbows and watches him with interest. “You don't think they've got plenty reason to feel that way?”

James frowns. “Sir?”

“You know why I'm here, lieutenant. Don't you think the batarians have a point?”

“I get why they're pissed, commander, but if we can't trust your judgment, don't know whose we can.” He sits up a little straighter. “I'm not here to play the brass’ games, like I said. You made a tough call.”

“I made a call that sent hundreds of thousands of batarian to their deaths.”

“If you say it had to be done, it has to be done.” He looks up at her expectantly, and eventually she sighs.

“It did. Doesn't make it any better.”

“No sir,” he says, “never does, but -” He hesitates, drops his eyes to the table. “Well, you've read my file. You know where I stand on that.”

She hasn't read it, actually, she hasn't been cleared to know anything about her guard detail, but she senses now isn't the moment to let James know that. Right now, whether or not it's officially the case, he's just looking for a little understanding from a CO he looks up to. That she can do, rank or no rank.

“You make the best choice you can with the information you've got,” she says gently, “it's all you can do.”

“Yeah, I know. Just didn't think I'd spend every day second guessing myself, is all.”

“I'd be worried if you didn't,” she says, and Vega looks up at her, surprised. “I've made some tough calls, maybe more than most, and it never gets easier. If it did, I wouldn't be truly appreciating the kind of choice I'm making, wouldn't be making sure I take responsibility for the consequences. You understand?”

“I… yeah. I think so, commander.”

“That's the hardest part, because you have to do it every day. Every damn day. It's difficult to understand what it's like to make that sort of decision until you've been in that situation yourself,” she says, watching him acknowledge that with a subdued nod.

“Sometimes feels like they're not trying all that hard, though,” James says, startling a laugh out of her.

“Now you're getting it,” she says, and they share a conspiratorial grin. “So here I am, locked away while they try to figure it out.”

“They're taking their sweet time.”

“That they are.” Shepard shuffles the pack in a businesslike way. “I'm thankful for you helping me pass the time, by the way. I was getting sick of staring out the window.

“Same here,” James mutters, and then shrugs. “Can't be much longer, right? They've already stalled for a month.”

“Doesn't bear thinking about,” Shepard says cheerfully, dealing them both out a hand with a grin. “Alright then, lieutenant. I say we just play for bragging rights.”

“Deal.”

She wipes the table with him, because although sometimes it's good to see your idols humanized, sometimes it's good to have them thrash you at poker, too.

 

-

 

Liara finds her in the observation deck scrolling through footage of the Earth attack on her omnitool, which is about as morbid as it sounds. Shepard shuts the images off as Liara sits down next to her, and stares ahead in stony silence at the stars instead. The grief is too private to share even with someone whose notion of privacy is a little more expansive than most people’s.

“I’m sorry, Shepard,” Liara says softly, for what feels like the hundredth time.

Shepard doesn’t respond to that. “Any updates?”

“Just more of the same, I’m afraid. I suppose we’ll know when we get nearer Palaven.”

“Khar’shan?”

“They took the brunt of the Reapers initial attack, so it seems. The batarians were almost entirely decimated.”

Shepard inhales sharply at that, choosing not to notice Liara’s concerned glance. “How long until we arrive?”

“Two hours,” Liara says, and then touches Shepard’s shoulder gently. She tries not to flinch from the comfort offered, but it’s a close thing. “Perhaps you should get some rest.”

“I’m fine,” Shepard says, and tries for a shadow of a smile. “Thanks for the intel.”

“Of course,” Liara says, and after a moment’s hesitation, lets go of her shoulder. When it becomes clear Shepard isn’t going to offer anything further, she starts to get to her feet slowly and reluctantly. Shepard sighs and lets her head fall forward, elbows on her knees. Liara has made it her mission to be Shepard's shadow ever since they left Mars, albeit a more insistent and prying one. She means well, but Shepard finds herself shutting down more and more in the face of Liara’s gently prying concern. She's changed; they've both changed. It's not as easy as it used to be.

 _And_ , a traitorous little voice murmurs, _her homeworld isn't burning. She couldn't begin to understand_. Shepard crushes that one firmly beneath her heel.

“You know, most of the time, I didn’t even have one single nice damn thing to say about it,” she says, and Liara stops dead with a puzzled expression. “Earth,” Shepard adds flatly, and rubs at her forehead. “Hardly been back since I left.”

She doesn’t talk about this. She doesn't know why she's started talking about it.

“It’s your home, Shepard.”

“I couldn’t wait to leave,” she says, and feels the weight of Liara sitting back down next to her. “I didn't take my shore leave there if I could help it, almost felt like the worst part of being on trial was being stuck back there again. I wanted a transfer to Arcturus.” She barks a short laugh, utterly humorless. “Hindsight’s a hell of a thing. I signed up the day after I turned eighteen - but you probably know that.”

“It’s a matter of public record.”

“Not all of it,” Shepard says, and finds herself giving Liara a sideways look. “How much do you know?”

“Really - not much more than that. The Alliance haven’t sealed any of your involvement with the Reds.” Liara softens her voice again, but she needn't bother. “You were very young.”

“Best time to recruit ‘em,” Shepard says, “I knew what I was doing, Liara. They kept me fed with a roof over my head.”

“That's a terrible choice.”

“Nah, it's an easy one.” She gives Liara another sideways look. “It wasn't all xenophobia and illegal weapons smuggling, you know. Some of us were just kids.”

“What did you do?

“Same stupid shit any kid would do if no one was there to tell them not to.”

“I used to sneak out to the archeology labs, sometimes,” Liara says wryly, and Shepard cracks a genuine smile.

“Well, maybe a little bit more adventurous than that. Look, I know the press like the little girl lost story, but it wasn't like that. I don't remember my parents, but I had an aunt, I lived with her until I was seven.” She shrugs. “Might not have even been a blood relative, now I think of it.”

“She wasn't.”

That startles her, though it's hardly a surprise. “Yeah?”

“Cerberus were looking for your relatives after they acquired your body, I think they hoped a gene match would help with the reconstruction.”

It's hard not to get the shivers whenever Liara talks about her as a _body_ , however alive she is now. She runs her fingers through her hair and exhales in a rush. “Right. And my folks?”

“They never looked very hard for them, as far as I know, the Lazarus Project came up with more resource efficient ways to achieve their ends.” Liara hesitates. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be,” Shepard says wearily, and she means it. “They had plenty of opportunities to get in touch if they wanted. I guess it doesn't matter now, anyway. Wherever they were, they're probably dead.” It feels weird to say it, after years of apathy.

Liara is, as always, well intentioned but lacking in the finer points of tact. “The casualties are - high.”

“This Primarch better be worth it,” Shepard mutters uncharitably, then pinches the bridge of her nose. “If Palaven’s even half as bad as Earth, I don't know how we're ever going to convince him.”

“The initial reports are not promising, but the turian military is unrivalled.”

“For whatever that's worth,” Shepard says, thinking of the feeds and the way Vancouver burned. “I guess we'll find out.”

“Yes.” Liara pauses. “The last casualties list I received included a major attack on Cipritine.”

Shepard sees where this is going. “They hit Earth's major cities too.”

“Of course, I only meant - I know you must be worried about Garrus.”

There's an uncomfortable silence as Shepard tries not to grind her teeth. Here’s the kicker: Liara doesn’t know, because she wasn’t there. She doesn't know, because she’s never asked, because she took the pieces and slotted them together on her own, instead of taking half a moment to sit down and talk. That’s how their friendship works now. She takes the things that ought to be given and then she expects that to be enough, that if she sits Shepard down now and tries to get her to open up it won’t matter she skipped all the important steps. She means well, Shepard _knows_ she means well, but it isn’t enough.

Shepard has a lot of misgivings about Liara’s new place in the galaxy, and their personal dynamic is the least of them. It is, however, one she’s not sure they’re going to get past.

“What do you know?” she says eventually, because she’s sure Liara wouldn’t have mentioned it if there wasn’t more to say.

“I’m sorry, Shepard,” Liara says, with an unnatural gentleness, even for soft spoken Liara, and hands her a datapad. Shepard hardly has the energy to wonder if she was planning on showing it to her if she hadn’t asked. She’s been imagining this in endless ways since the very first attack on Earth, trying to brace herself not just for Garrus but for all the deaths that are sure to follow, and she finds that her training has paid off as she takes the datapad with her hand as steady as stone.

“Is he -”

“No names, no. But Cipritine is all but gone. Are you sure he was there?”

“You’re the Shadow Broker, you tell me,” Shepard says dully, and all Liara offers is a small, sad smile. She can’t bear to look at it, and drags her eyes away to scroll through the information, hardly taking it in. Images of the devastation, destroyed military targets, senior officials missing presumed dead -

She drops the datapad onto the couch abruptly. She doesn’t know why Liara has showed her this. She ought to know better than anyone that not all information is useful.

“If you need to talk…”

“I'm going to catch some shut-eye,” Shepard says, standing up. It’s a poor choice of lie, but she gives it like a command, forgetting that Liara’s lack of military background means she rarely falls into line as easily as Shepard is used to by tone of voice alone.

“Shepard -”

She doesn't stop to pick up the datapads she's left littered on the chair. “Tell Vega to suit up in time for the drop.”

“Commander,” Liara says quietly, and for once she doesn’t follow.

 

-

 

The dash to the shuttle is as frenetic as the rest of their trip planetside; a horde of husks between them and it and not a single uninterrupted straight in sight, due to the boulders and rocky terrain. Husks are all well and good when you can take them out from a distance, but close quarters like this they come into their own.

Two rush Vega as he reloads, he shakes one off but finds the other has jammed its fingers down the back of his armor, between his neck and the back plate, and won’t be shaken loose so easily. James is a good soldier, he’s adapted well and quickly to this new sort of enemy, but it’s still his first real close, prolonged encounter with Reaper ground troops. Shepard spots the uncertainty in his eyes: not quite fear but definitely at a loss as he tries to dislodge his passenger, to no avail. She does the quick mental calculations; she’s too far away to reach him in time, and there’s no one closer. She eyes the distance again and groans.

This is not the kind of shot she likes to make a habit of.

“Ah, shit,” she mutters, but lines the sights of her rifle up with where the husk is still clawing at Vega’s neck. If anyone else did this, she’d give them an earful. “That’s it,” she breathes, as James ducks a little to try and yank the husk off his back, and takes the split second of stillness as his head drops out of sight to squeeze the trigger.  She wishes she hadn’t just spent six damn months in a room playing cards and doing pull ups on the door frame, but you work with what you’ve got.

The bullet passes within a hairsbreadth of Vega’s neck, probably still close enough to sting, but it hits the husk square in the left eye and lets him finally fling it from his back. He turns to give her a quick nod; she notes she it hasn't spooked him,which is good to know. Not everyone takes a close shave so well, though by the time they've done a few months with Shepard they have to. Good to see Vega’s ahead of the curve.

No time to linger on the small victories; she swings her rifle over her back and reaches for her pistol as she waves the Primarch forward. His gun is drawn but she’s not letting him get truly into the middle of combat, for reasons that are obvious if clearly frustrating him. Protocol would generally be to keep diplomats unarmed and surrounded, but she hasn't got the heart even if she had enough people on the ground to form a proper protective formation. Plus, he's turian, and she doubts their politicians dispense with their weapons.

“Clear ahead, Commander,” she hears James yell, and urges Victus forward towards their planned landing zone.

“That's a lot of husks,” Garrus says, and they exchange a grim look. “That's one hell of a production line.”

“Cannibals, too. They were on Earth in huge numbers.”

“Same here.”

“Khar’shan got hit pretty hard,” Shepard says heavily, and signals for Vega to call in the shuttle. They can't risk it getting swarmed by husks, but they've cleared some space for the time being.

“So I heard,” Garrus says, positioning himself at the other side of the Primarch as they keep their guns trained on the route behind them, Vega ahead keeping the landing zone clear. “Nice shot, by the way.”

She bites back a grin despite everything, because some things never change. “Thanks.”

Seeing Garrus again is something she can't and won't explain, not to anyone. In a reality where planets burn, it's just a small thing, a small, improbable mercy in a merciless world. It's like breathing after holding your breath.

The shuttle comes in to land, and Shepard notes again how well Cortez handles it - he's going to be a real asset - waiting until Victus is onboard to finally turn her gun away from the horizon and follows him into the kodiak. Garrus looks as though he might reach for her as she jumps on board - to steady her, maybe - but thinks better of it.

As they pull away from Menae, the view of Palaven becomes clear, just as hellish as before. Victus sinks into a seat with the same wearied exhaustion Shepard feels, but Garrus stays standing by the window, and so she stands next to him, holding onto the handrail on the ceiling.

“I'm sorry, Garrus,” she says quietly, and his shoulders drop a little as he sighs.

“Yeah,” he says, and then meets her gaze. “I'm sorry about Earth, too.”

There's a solace she can take in their shared grief, not just because he's Garrus and not just because she knows him like she does, but in knowing that it's killing him to leave as much as it did her. She's been faced with Vega’s directionless anger and Liara’s soft concern, but she hasn't seen what she felt on anyone else's face. Garrus, like her, has his eye on the bigger picture, but it doesn't make it hurt any less.

He turns to face her, his face lit by the dim lights of the kodiak, every small whorl and detail of his scarring thrown into relief. It's healed well, and he wears it well too, a grim confidence to the way he holds his head, chin up with an air of carelessness. Garrus has always been good at projecting a devil-may-care attitude, but it feels like more than just a cultivation now, if a darker version than she's used to seeing.

“I thought you were down there,” she says quietly, acutely aware of both Vega and Victus’ eyes on them. “When did you leave?”

“Not long after the initial attacks, I went where I could be most useful.” His brow plates shift in consternation; she can imagine how hard it was to leave only to get a front row seat to the destruction. “I thought you were on Earth.”

“We've either got the best luck in the galaxy, or the worst,” she says, and he grins.

“Where you're concerned, Shepard, it's always a bit of both.”

She casts another look back at Palaven with a heavy heart, and voices the one thought she hasn't been able to yet, speaking in a low voice just for his ears. “Tell me it made a difference, Garrus. Tell me three hundred thousand souls didn't die so they could wipe us out just as fast.”

“It made a difference.”

“Did it? The brass called me minutes after the first reports came in, and _then_ they wanted to know what to do. It was all too late, all of it.”

“It made a difference,” he repeats firmly, and holds her gaze.

“I hope so, Garrus. I really hope so.”

 

-

 

The war wears her down by degrees.

Garrus finds her in the loft, chewing mechanically on whatever it is Traynor pressed insistently into her hands as she goes over the reports. He drops an MRE onto the table in front of her, relaxing into his customary spot on the couch with a sigh.

It's become usual for most of her interactions to end with someone handing her food. Garrus leaves it lying about casually, like it's something he had on him anyway, nevermind the fact that it's basically inedible for him. Sam tends to give her something with a report, carrot and stick. When food became the stick, she can't quite say. It hasn't held the same sort of essential pull for her ever since Cerberus rewired her insides, and now she's lost even the vague hunger she used to get.

This is what they built her for. The Collectors was just a test run, and this is the real field test. There's no room for failure.

She starts slightly as Garrus’ fingers come into view, pulling the datapad out of her hands.

“Shepard,” he says, in the way that makes her think he's said it more than once already, and she blinks.

“Sorry. Just thinking, I guess.”

She used to map out the expressions on his face to a blank human template, think _how would this look on a human_. Each plate shift, each subtle tightening of the skin beneath, they all had an equivalent she could imagine until the way his face moved became familiar to her. She's long past that now, but for a moment she sees the human expression she would've once conjured up: lips pressed together tightly, jaw clenched. With turians it's more subtle - his mandibles tuck in and back, his neck tenses - and there's a temptation to read it as a milder concern than it really is.

It's an expression he wears a lot. The one that happens inbetween.

The same one when they find the blown out Cerberus mech, and Shepard hauls herself herself up over the shards that used to be the cockpit and fires it up.

 _You're not seriously getting in that_ , he says, equal parts delighted and aggrieved. Delighted that she never fails to exceed his expectations with her half-baked, outrageous schemes, and aggrieved that he has the misfortune of having a girlfriend with such a poor sense of self-preservation.

And there it is, between the amused exasperation and the focus that he slips into as soon as the action start: the expression that almost, almost breaks her resolve.

It would be nice to have met him at another time, in another life. It's not a useful thought.

“Shepard,” he says again, breaking her melancholy and dragging her back into the present. “The dead a little louder than the living, huh?”

“Something like that.” She reaches out absently to touch his face as he lets out a low hum of agreement. Garrus is making more than a few tough decisions of his own, these days.

“Did you speak with Victus?”

“Yeah, I spoke with Wrex, got it all straightened out.” Garrus wraps his fingers around her wrist. “Turns out turian projections of krogan capability are a little ambitious, given they were always the enemy. Better to overestimate than be unprepared.”

“Right.”

“We're organizing a few more drops on Palaven, Wrex gave his blessing.”

“Nice work.”

“Upside is, they're both happy. Downside,” Garrus says, giving her a wry look, “is the Primarch thinks I'm some kind of master krogan negotiator.”

Shepard chuckles. “Did you tell him it's the scars?”

“Funny. Wrex just likes making us squirm.”

“He's all bark,” Shepard says fondly, “until he bites, that is.”

“Well, I don't plan on being bitten.” Garrus’ mandibles flare. “Not by Wrex, anyway.”

“Uhuh.”

Garrus edges a little closer and releases her hand, but he taps the datapad instead of following the suggestive comment up as he usually would. “The nav data says we're headed into batarian space.”

“Yeah.”

“Mind if I ask why?”

“We're making a stop on Khar’shan.” Shepard hands the datapad to him. “Just a quick one, we've got a location for the artifacts, it shouldn't be too hard.”

“The pillars of strength?”

“Ancient batarian religious texts, one of the first depictions of -”

“The four aspects of the soul, I know.” At Shepard's incredulous look, he adds, “I took a course in alien religions and spirituality before I started active duty with C-Sec. Standard practice before they send you out into the field.”

“I thought that was xenobiology.”

“That was later.” He casts her a look. “It was more... _hands on_.”

“ _Was_ it now.”

“Practical application,” he says smoothly, and then drops his playful manner once more. “When did you learn about batarian religion?”

She drops her gaze. “I'm no expert, but - it's an easy thing. _Normandy_ can be in and out before the Reapers see our tail lights. It's the least we can do.”

“Shepard -”

“It's not about Torfan, Garrus.”

“If you say so,” he says mildly, and lets the silence wash over them for a few moments.

Shepard presses the heels of her palms into her eyes wearily.

“Can I ask you something?” he says eventually, knocking his knee against hers gently.

“Of course.”

He takes his time getting there, pushing the datapads away and stretching his neck and shoulders out a little. “If Torfan happened tomorrow, would you still play it the same way?”

Shepard's throat tightens. “If you're asking if I regret it, the answer’s no.”

“Not _regret_.” He pauses. “Just - knowing what you know now.”

“Nothing changes the situation. It was the right call.” She's aware of the defensiveness of her answer and posture, and tries to soften them both. “Nothing’s changed that.”

“Shepard, you know better than anyone I'm with you one hundred per cent,” he says, and her throat tightens even more. “You don't have to convince me of that.”

She swallows. “Is this where you tell me I'm some kind of chef?”

He half grins. “Something like that. It was a stupid question, forget about it.”

She sighs and drops her shoulders, weary to her bones. “No, it wasn't. It's just - I don't know if I could do it again. That's half of what bothers me.”

“Why?”

“It needed to be done. There are more things than ever that need to be done, and I -” She ducks her head and take a deep breath. “I need to be able to do them. Do you understand?”

Garrus doesn't answer. “What changed?”

“Everything. Nothing.” She shakes her head. “I was a very different person back then, Garrus. I don't think you would've recognized me.”

He gives her a shrewd sideways look. “I was a very different person after Omega, and you still recognized me.”

“I don't know,” she says heavily, “I was - I wasn't myself for a while, and even before that -”

Garrus cuts her off by taking her hands and covering them with his.

“Shepard,” he says, as steady and solid as the weight of a rifle in her hands and righteous purpose in her heart, “I would've recognized you just fine.”

 

-

 

Shepard has never liked killing geth. She likes it even less now, knowing what she does. Tali’s feelings on the matter are probably equally complex before Rannoch even comes into it, and the resulting tension radiating from both of them is palpable. Garrus can be mouthy in the field at the best of times - five years ago she wouldn’t have stood for it, but five years ago she hadn’t quite shredded the standard command handbook yet - but he’s more talkative even than usual. She knows Garrus is perceptive, but she doesn't always think of him as _tactful_ , as such. Things have changed.

“So,” he says, as they settle in behind cover, waiting for the next patrol to pass, “how’s Kal’reegar?”

Tali turns to glare at him as Shepard grins behind her hand.

“Just a friendly enquiry,” Garrus says innocently.

Tali snorts. “Right.”

“He must think it's pretty impressive that you're an admiral now -”

“Shepard,” Tali says, “do we have to wait for the next patrol?”

“Afraid so.”

“Then could you please order Garrus to stop talking?”

Shepard chuckles. “You think he listens to me?”

“Shepard, I'm wounded.” Garrus says, clearly warming to his role as the resident pain in the ass. “I'm a paragon of obedience -”

“Uhuh.”

“- and anyway, I'm just asking after an old friend.”

Shepard shakes her head and can't stifle her grin any longer, warmed by the familiarity of the bickering and the reassuring glow that comes from these moments between the loss and the death and the suffering. They are easier to find than she expected, and each one is more precious than the last. She hoards them for the times ahead.

“You met him twice,” Tali mutters, and then sighs with a hiss of static. “He's _fine_.”

“Glad to hear it,” Garrus says, and his mandibles spread in his very own shit eating grin. “Maybe you could write him letters, like in _Fleet and Flotilla_ -”

“Shepard, permission to shoot the turian.”

“Wish we could, Tali. Unfortunately he might come in useful.”

“I'm just offering some romantic advice.”

“Garrus, if I was going to take romantic advice from anyone, it definitely wouldn't be you.” Tali casts Shepard a sideways look which she pretends not to see. “Although…”

“We should stay alert,” Shepard says, “the patrol is due -”

“Not for another ten minutes,” Tali says slyly, “I have to know, Shepard, what _is_ Garrus’ idea of romance? Does he steal everything from _Fleet and Flotilla_?”

“Wouldn't know, I've never seen it.”

“ _You wouldn't know_ -” Tali throws her hands up in seeming despair, which Shepard feels is a little uncalled for.

“It's just a vid.”

“It's a classic of our time,” Garrus says reproachfully, and - _really?_ This is what they join forces over?

“It's more than a classic,” Tali says, “it's a cultural turning point in interspecies relationships!”

“If you say so.”

“The first turian-quarian marriage was legalized on the Citadel a month after its release,” Tali says, getting animated in that way she has that makes Shepard feel infinitely fond of her, “it was a breakthrough for the acceptability of quarian relationships across all species, it broke down so many taboos.”

“Turians too,” Garrus says, “before that it was only really considered acceptable for turians and asari, but it changed a lot of attitudes towards alien relationships.” He pauses. “Maybe not for krogan, though.”

“There were so many vids made afterwards with other interspecies romances, although none of them were as good, of course.”

“I don't know,” Garrus says, “I liked that one with the volus.”

“ _The Clanless?_ It was dreadful!”

“It had a good soundtrack.”

“You're both nerds,” Shepard says fondly, and then after a sufficiently disdainful pause, asks curiously: “Are there any with humans?”

“ _Ocean Blue, Azure of the Heart, Cerulean Temptation_ , but they're all asari and humans. There were more that weren't as - well, _narrative_ , and focused on the, er, physical side of the relationships -”

Garrus appears to be suddenly struck by a coughing fit.

“I can't think of any other species,” Tali says thoughtfully. “I guess there's bound to be some cultural problems between turians and humans, anyway.”

“A little,” Shepard says, “we didn't exactly get off on the right foot.”

“And whose fault was that?” Garrus says, and she grins and flips him off.

“I think turian-human relationships are legislated for in Citadel law, though,” Tali says, “I watched a vid about it a while ago. I don't know if there have actually been many ceremonies, though -”

“Three,” Garrus and Shepard say simultaneously, and there's a brief, startled silence.

“You're both, er, very well informed,” Tali says.

Shepard clears her throat. “I saw it on the, er -”

“Read about it,” Garrus says, and then meets her gaze. After a long moment of just blinking at him in bemusement, she starts to grin.

“Uhuh,” she says. She thinks he might be blushing, or close enough. The back of his neck is a little darker than normal.

“I like to keep up to date on current affairs, Shepard.”

“Don't we all?”

“Is that the geth?” Tali’s voice is almost a whole register above her usual pitch. “I think the patrol must be early -”

“Hey, Garrus,” she says, “after this war -”

“That's definitely the patrol,” Tali says loudly, “perhaps we should move out -”

“Don't jinx it, Shepard,” Garrus says, but he's grinning too as he pulls his rifle from his back.

“ _Keelah_.”

They move in practiced formation towards the patrol, keeping low and quiet, and Shepard's grin fades slowly as she slips back into her battle focus. The geth pick them up on their sensors before they can quite ambush them, and Garrus slides into cover in front of her as a slug narrowly misses somewhere between his neck and shoulder, the one spot his armor doesn't adequately cover. It leaves a mark, a dark bloodless graze which Garrus shakes it off with an irritated gesture.

It's routine, and it's not even the closest shave with death one of them has had all week. Hell, it's not the closest in the past hour. She only has to look at the scars on his face to remind herself of how close to the edge they've walked.

 _Don't jinx it,_ she reminds herself, and slaps him on the shoulder as she takes her position next to him. Still, it spooks her more than she cares to admit, the sudden way it _hits_ her that they're all walking on a tightrope.

Her hope feels like a fragile, flimsy thing at the best of times, but right now, she can see right through it.

 

-

 

She has dreams about Torfan, sometimes. She always has, but now they're mixed in with shadowy forests and the sound of screaming, and she doesn't remember the batarians doing much of that. The moon itself was dull and rocky and flat but for the slow rolling hills, not a tree in sight.

 _Was._ The Reapers levelled it like they did the rest.

There are two things that no one has ever really understood about Torfan. Firstly, it's not the hordes of faceless batarians that haunt her, but the members of her squad that never made it. Secondly, she didn't just throw them callously and relentlessly at the problem until it went away, she threw _herself_ , and they - they just followed. They followed her because they trusted her, and Shepard wasn't half so experienced an officer back then but she always commanded the kind of loyalty that counts.

She didn't expect to survive, but she did, whilst most of those who walked in her footsteps didn't. Death follows Shepard like an old friend but it's those beside her that he takes, because he can't seem to ever get a good enough hold on her.

It's what she's most afraid of.

When she can’t or won’t sleep and Garrus is in the battery or in near-constant military discussions with the Hierarchy, she watches the stars and the blueshift from the observation deck, cross-legged on the chair in a less graceful imitation of Samara. She doesn’t know that she finds the sort of tangible serenity in the view that her old crewmate did, but she finds a little breathing space at least.

“Hey Shepard,” Ash says, as the door behind her opens. “Am I interrupting something?”

Shepard shakes herself out of her reverie and smiles faintly. “Course not, take a seat.”

“Couldn’t sleep?” Ash looks distinctly sleep-rumpled herself, her hair pulled back in a messy bun that takes Shepard straight back to the SR-1 and the overqualified gunnery chief who couldn’t seem to cut a break.

“Bad dreams,” she says, and Ash just nods, because it’s that easy to be honest with her. “You?”

“Donnelly snores like a drunk krogan.” She slumps down into the chair next to Shepard with a sigh. “But yeah, I get that.”

Ash yawns expansively as Shepard stretches out her legs. “Do you get them often?”

“More than I used to.”

“Since what, the war?”

Ash just gives her a long look. “Since Eden Prime.”

“Right. Sorry, stupid question.”

“Don’t worry about it. Are yours -”

“Yeah.” Shepard snorts. “I get the whole damn cabaret, though.”

“I can imagine.” Ashley tucks her hands under her thighs and gives Shepard a curious look. “Sometimes they’re not even about Eden Prime, you know? It’s just the squad doing drills or eating dinner or something, and then I wake up and remember I’m the only one left.”

Shepard nods numbly. In her dreams, when they turn around she doesn’t see the faces of her old team anymore. She sees Ash, Tali, Traynor, Garrus. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she says absently, “it’s - nice, I guess. It’s like they’re looking out for me.”

Not for the first time, Ash’s faith gives Shepard a sharp rush of longing. She nods her head toward the vast expanse of space. “What do you think’s up there?”

Ash grins. “You mean beside black holes and aliens? You know I believe in heaven, Shepard. It’s pretty self explanatory.”

“But what’s there? Eternal life?”

“Sure,” Ash says, like she’s talking about the probability of rain in Vancouver or if James is a passable cook, and not the kingdom of God and immortality. “I don’t think it’s something we can fully understand.”

“What do you think you’ll find there?”

“My dad,” Ash says, “my squad. Alenko.”

Shepard swallows and looks away, and then tries for a grin. “Udina?”

“Ugh,” Ash says, and then sighs. “But hey, universal salvation and all that.”

“You think they’ll let me in?”

“You want me to make you a reservation, skipper?”

“Sure, put in a good word.” Shepard grins again and Ash laughs quietly. “Seriously, don’t you think that living forever just seems sort of exhausting?”

Ash frowns. “What?”

“I feel about a hundred years old already, nevermind eternal life on top of that.” Shepard tries to sound flippant, but there's no fooling Ash. “Don’t know if I have the energy.”

“It wouldn’t be like that.”

“I - yeah. I suppose it wouldn’t.”

“Are you getting enough rest, Shepard?” Ash doesn’t dance around stuff like this, she just asks.

“Probably not,” Shepard admits, and rubs her forehead. “We’ve got a long way to go yet, and I’m just - I’m tired. I don’t know if more sleep would help make this war any easier.”

“I guess not,” Ash says slowly, and then pulls her knees to her chest and gazes ahead thoughtfully.

“Uh oh.”

“What?”

“You’ve got your poetry face on,” Shepard teases, and Ash rolls her eyes. “Hit me with it, Williams.”

“ _The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep_.”

“Even _I_ know that one.”

“Don’t play the illiterate orphan card with me, Shepard, I know you’ve read a book.” Ash grins. “Maybe two.”

“Don’t go spreading it around. I’ve got a reputation to keep up.”

“Sure thing,” Ash says, and then nudges Shepard with her shoulder. “Miles to go, huh?”

Shepard is thinking more about the promises. “Yeah.”

“Don’t go reserving yourself a place at God’s right side just yet, okay? We need you.”

“I’m not, Ash. Really.”

Ash looks unconvinced, but relaxes back in her seat. “Good.”

They sit in silence for a few moments.

“I ask too much of everyone,” Shepard says eventually, “of all of you, when people close to me have a habit of dying. None of you should -”

“Shut up, Shepard,” Ash says with fond exasperation, and shakes her head. “We all know what we’re doing.”

“I promised myself after Torfan that it wouldn’t happen again.”

“With all due respect, that was a stupid promise. That’s just how it goes, Shepard, you can’t change things like that. I know that, Garrus knows that. Hell, even James knows that. We’ll all lost people.”

“You’re all like family to me, Ash. There’s no point winning this war if you don’t get to see the other side.”

“If ‘ _we’_ don’t get to? What about you?”

“Me too,” Shepard says unconvincingly, but Ash is shaking her head.

“That’s why we’re all here, you know that?”

“What is?”

“Because you’re an _idiot_ ,” Ash says with feeling, “who’d space herself before losing a crew member.”

Shepard finds herself grinning at that, the memory somehow less painful from Ash’s mouth. “An insubordinate one at that.”

“You’re not fooling me, you love the insubordinate ones.”

“Even better if they point a gun at me,” Shepard says slyly, watching Ash’s expression move through embarrassed to amused. “Even James, huh?”

“Sure, with everything that happened on Fehl Prime.”

“I'm surprised he talked about it with you.”

“Like I said, commander, we've all been there.”

“Still surprised,” Shepard says, and leans back on the couch. “Don't think I don't know you're sweet on him, Williams.”

Ash rolls her eyes. “I'm not twelve, Shepard.”

“Sure, sure. I'm sure Cortez appreciates how much time you put into helping him out with the armory.”

“Everyone knows Steve works himself too hard. Just doing my duty, ma’am.”

Shepard nods in mock seriousness. “You're a credit to the uniform, Williams. Vega would be too, if he ever wore it.”

That gets a laugh. “And miss the chance to flex in front of anything that moves? Good luck with that.”

“So you _did_ notice.”

“Kinda hard not to, don't you think?”

“So…”

“ _So_ ,” Ash says, rolling her eyes, “it's hardly the time.”

That sobers Shepard up pretty fast. “Maybe not,” she says, and rubs her forehead with a sigh. She hopes that Vega makes it out the other side of this, gets the N7 designation he deserves. She knows it isn't official, but maybe if she spoke to Hackett, vouched for him as an unofficial mentor -

“Ask me when this is all over,” Ash says, with a confidence that tugs at Shepard's gut.

“Sure, Ash,” she says softly, patting her on the shoulder and earning a surprised glance in return. “When all this is over.”

There are a lot of reasons Shepard knows she has to win this war, but something crystallizes in the small detail of two friends deserving better and deserving the chance to see whatever the future holds for them.

It's a promise she intends to keep with every last ounce of determination she has left.

 

-

 

This time, she dreams of floating above Alchera and the cold, darkness of dying. There's a rush of panic and fear and helplessness as she thinks of all the things she should've done and all the things she never will, but then, as her oxygen supply dries up, she finds a moment of peace.

They're in the pods. Her promise has been kept.

The next memory would be taking ragged gulps of air on a Cerberus operating table, but for all that she's glad they brought her back, it's that moment of peace that she misses. She wakes up calm for the first time in months. Garrus rises from his customary seat by her table but for once, she hasn't woken with screams ringing in her ears. Just the silence of the stars.

More than anyone, she wants him to get the peace he deserves. The official Hierarchy rank they haven't had time to process, the reunion with his family, if the Council don't make him a Spectre then they really are idiots -

She can live with her own death. It's everyone else's that she can't accept.

 

 

-

 

She does a last tour of _Normandy_ , self conscious of the way she's labelling it as such, and of the morbid places it's taking her thoughts.

It won't be long until they reach Earth.

She takes a moment in engineering to listen to the thrumming of the drivecore, where _Normandy_ feels as alive and vital as any organic. There are too many memories to know what to do with; from listening to Jack talk about going pirate with eyebrows raised, to watching Tali do what she would call ‘tinkering’ and Adams would call ‘advanced aerospace engineering’, to crawling after that stupid little hamster on her hands and knees.

There's still a dent in the wall where Grunt tried to put his head through it.

Joker and EDI are bickering good naturedly about the best way to disarm a krogan - she doesn't ask - and she leaves them to it, walking the length of the CIC thinking of Mordin’s old lab and the weight of responsibility, and leaving a legacy you can be proud of.

She reaches the battery after a slow tour of the crew deck, but Garrus isn't there, so she just stands by the Thannix with a hand resting absently on the cold metal.

Funny that it'd be the room with the big guns that hold her softest memories, but there you go.

“I sense a turian was here,” comes a flanged voice from the doorway, pitched low in a lazy attempt at imitating Javik, “tall, handsome, great shot -”

She pulls her hand back from the Thannix and grins as Garrus closes the door behind him.

“Want me to get Javik, see what he can really get from this room?”

“No,” Garrus says, notably quickly, and then his mandibles spread wide again as he leans against the console. “You want him to know _everything_ that's happened here, Shepard?”

“Nope.” She perches on the railing and lets her eyes roam around the battery. “How's she looking?”

“She's ready,” Garrus says, and pats the console fondly. “She's never let us down.”

“Did you really used to sleep in here?”

“Can you really see me curled up on one of those tiny little bunks?” Garrus gives her an incredulous look.

“You could've said something.”

“I know my place on a human ship,” Garrus says slyly, “substandard rations, uncomfortable sleeping facilities -”

Shepard levels him a look.

“- but we've reached a satisfactory arrangement,” he finishes smoothly, and she shakes her head with a laugh, tugging him towards her.

“Only satisfactory?”

Garrus weaves one hand in her hair, one hand around her waist, like he always does. “Well, maybe better than that.”

“I should hope so.”

“Maybe a lot better.”

His scars are familiar beneath her fingers, and when she runs her thumb along the edges, he tilts his head and leans into it with an unguarded expression. She knows he can't quite feel it, that the scar tissue is less sensitive to touch and instead becomes uncomfortable when it's too cold or too warm, stretching the inflexible skin and making him twitch his mandibles irritably.

“It’s been good,” she says, and she keeps her voice steady.

“Yeah,” he says, “it has.”

She doesn’t want to make this a goodbye, but they both know what they’re walking into. There are some things that bear saying twice. “I’m proud of you. I just want you to know that.”

“I’d say the same, but I don’t think proud really covers it.” Garrus almost laughs, a subdued sort of chuckle as he presses his forehead against hers. “I just hope they remember to mention me in the history books. I like to think I helped, here and there.”

“You did,” she says softly, and then grins. “I mean, you deserve at least a paragraph, anyway.”

“Thanks.”

“A page? I’m feeling generous.”

“Just as long as it’s noted somewhere I helped saved the galaxy a _little_.”

“Getting ahead of ourselves a bit, aren’t we?”

“Never,” he says, and kisses her on the top of her head. “We always save the day, Shepard, you know that. We’re the luckiest bastards in the whole damn galaxy.”

“Hard to kill?”

“I’d like to see them try,” he says, and for a moment, she lets herself believe in a world where they both emerge from this unscathed.

It can’t be long now. It can’t be long.

She understands now, here at the end of the long road she was always destined to travel, why the Illusive Man brought her back, what the qualities in her are that he saw and she denied. She sees the lessons that Torfan taught her early on, what everyone saw in it that she refused to accept.

Anderson said that she couldn’t choose her legacy, but she’d never really believed that. She’s chosen it every damn day, and she’s choosing it now.

“We’ll do it,” she says, and she knows that they will, whatever the cost. “We’ll do it.”

She’s the Butcher of Torfan. She’ll get it done.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I recently did my last pre-Andromeda playthrough of these games and I'm vaguely ashamed to say it was my first ever ruthless Shepard. I've read a lot of fic about this and I thought I understood, but having actually played it, I mean - god, I feel it in my _bones_. This happened because of this, and because I needed to say goodbye, and because I'm still not done with Shepard or Garrus, and my pathetic little heart might never really be ready to let go. I hope you enjoyed it, and I guess I'll see you on the other side of Andromeda.


End file.
